


Blazing (burn it all down)

by strawberriesandtophats



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Canon Disabled Character, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eating Disorders, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, Heatwave, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Recovery, Self-Acceptance, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 06:27:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20541593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberriesandtophats/pseuds/strawberriesandtophats
Summary: The day was so hot that the sidewalks in Ankh-Morpork were melting the soles of every shoe they touched, stalls selling iced lemonade were thriving and everyone was trying to find a sliver of shade.In which Vimes suffers from heat exhaustion, drinks lemonade and gets the care that he needs.





	Blazing (burn it all down)

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Please note that this fic describes some disordered eating (both in the past and in the present) and shows Vimes suffer from heat exhaustion. These issues are explored in the fic as a whole.

The day was so hot that the sidewalks in Ankh-Morpork were melting the soles of every shoe they touched, stalls selling iced lemonade were thriving and everyone was trying to find a sliver of shade.

Vimes was hosing down a very delighted and very sticky Young Sam in the garden when a postman appeared with a letter late in the afternoon.

The postman had left his uniform jacket behind and was only wearing his regulation shirt and appeared to be baffled by the shirt Vimes was wearing, which Sybil had found in the attic and had a pattern of brightly colored leaves and flowers. It was a good shirt. Not only did it make him feel like he was on holiday, it had horrified the Assassin student that had landed in the pond to such a degree that he‘d just walked out of the garden at speed, rubbing his eyes as if to try to wipe away what they had just seen. He’d even refused to be hosed down, leaving a slimy trail behind him. As far as Vimes was concerned, that was a win-win situation.

The letter was from Lord Vetinari.

Of course it was.

Vimes hosed his own head instead of taking a shower in the newly renovated bathroom downstairs and dried Young Sam with a towel before heading inside to put on his uniform. Cold water dripped down on his shoulders, his breathing easier as he pulled on the chain mail and finally clipped his badge onto the breastplate. Outside he heard Young Sam talking with Wilikins about his new schoolteachers.

In the time it took Vimes to walk to the Palace and smoke a cigar, the metal of his armor had become hot enough to fry an egg on it.

Some part of him wondered if he should have just kept his leafy shirt on.

Another part of him wondered if this was the day that some spark would light the city on fire.

He’d stopped to get himself two lemonades that were mostly ice and finished the first one in the anteroom in the Palace, sweat running down his back and glad that he was wearing sandals instead of boots. The drink kept him cool enough so that the heat radiating from his armor was not completely overwhelming.

Still, his breathing was rather ragged, even if his legs had dutifully made their way up the stairs to the anteroom. He sat down on one of the chairs in the empty room, putting the cold container, still half full of ice, on top of his aching knees for a while before throwing the drink away into a nearby bin.

He opened his leather bag and found a well-worn romance novel, his hands too sweaty to knit much. For a few peaceful moments he lingered over a comfortingly familiar passage about the captain getting ready for battle, putting the coat on and making sure that the crew was in good spirits.

As soon as he was inside the Oblong Office, he put the other lemonade away on Lord Vetinari’s desk, trying to blink away the woozy feeling he got when he straightened his back. His shirt was damp with sweat but the air inside the armor was relatively cool. The problem was that the rest of his body was very warm. He resisted the urge to just dump the lemonade over his head in front of the Patrician.

“Ah, Vimes,” Lord Vetinari said, looking up from his paperwork. “Good that you could make it.”

Lord Vetinari was in his shirtsleeves. There were no robes in sight, just a faded black waistcoat. His cravat was still there, completing the image of a man hard at work despite the roaring heat.

Vimes could see his pale wrists as the man put down the Times. Somehow that was worse than seeing the man utterly naked in bed, which Vimes had seen more than a few times over the years. Life was not fair.

“Sir-,” Vimes began, finding that it came out slurred and wonky. His vision had gone white at the edges, the world tilting to the left.

He grabbed the edge of the desk, his hands damp with sweat.

The bag dropped to the floor with a thud.

Vimes blinked, seeing the stoic expression on the Patrician’s face change into one of alarm. When he opened his eyes again, bony hands were digging into his biceps and holding him up.

“I’m going to take off your armor so that you can cool down,” Vetinari said. “Understood?”

Vimes nodded, breathing out.

His legs held him up, a feat in itself since they were insistent on shaking horribly all the while.

Lord Vetinari deftly unbuckled the armor, letting it fall on the floor. The chainmail went the same way, landing in a heap.

Vetinari did not ask him why he’d done such an idiotic thing as to put on metal armor in this heat, or told him how stupid it had been of him not to rest inside in the cool air of any of the Watch Houses before coming to the Palace.

Vimes sat down on the chair, allowing Vetinari to push at the back of his head gently until he could rest it in his hands. A cold, damp handkerchief was pressed against Vimes’s forehead.

“Breathe,” Vetinari said, pushing a glass of cold water into his hands. “Drink.”

Vimes looked down at himself, breathing through his teeth and failing to get much air into his lungs.

His shirt was see-through with sweat and sticking to his middle and back, showing parts of himself that he refused to acknowledge or even look at some mornings. Usually he’d wash with a rough cloth dipped in scalding water, washing off the worst of the sweat before buttoning his fresh shirt in a hurry, then putting on his uniform.

Gods knew that the uniform had enough layers so that he could just ignore all this and keep working.

Some weeks, when things got worse, he’d just pour himself a cup of tea instead of eating any breakfast at all. Sybil would pack him some fruit and a flask of soup to take to work, which he might nibble at when shuffling through the paperwork.

His breathing was not getting any better.

A hand was placed on his back and it stayed there for a long minute, until Vimes’s breathing was no longer as shaky as a cow on an iced pond.

Slowly, he tipped the glass so that water dripped into his mouth. He took small sips, closing his eyes until the world felt steadier. He used the damp handkerchief to wipe off sweat off his brow and another side of the handkerchief to press against his closed eyes.

“I’ve sent a message to Sybil that you’ll be staying over for the night,” Vetinari said, as if he suspected that Vimes would dash off to arrest every criminal in the city as soon as he could stand. He sat down behind his desk, rummaging around in his drawer until he found the reading glasses he pretended that he did not need.

“I’m alright,” Vimes said, taking hold of his now lukewarm lemonade and trying to drink it all at once. “Just haven’t been eating much lately.”

“I’ll ask the cooks to make us something,” Vetinari said. “Perhaps some toast?”

“Not if it’s any bother,” Vimes managed. “We can just continue on with our meeting-“

“Vimes-“ Vetinari began.

“Just give me a minute to catch my breath and we’ll talk about the city and how many murderers are loose and how the new Lance-Constables are taking to life in the Watch and how I’m always behind on my paperwork-“ Vimes said in between deep breaths that did not give him any relief.

“Vimes-“ Vetinari said again, standing up.

“Even if I have Inspector Pessimal helping me with it, I come back to work in the mornings and there are mountains of paper on my desk-“ Vimes continued rambling. “And I can’t run-“

“You don’t have to keep up with anything right now,” Vetinari said, helping him up. “We’ll postpone this appointment. Come with me.”

Vimes followed Vetinari into his quarters, which were modest but contained sturdy furniture built to last for several decades.

“Your overnight bag is inside the bathroom,” Vetinari told him, limping over to the sofa and sitting down.

Vimes locked the bathroom door, peeling the shirt off his body and throwing it in the direction of the laundry basket. He stepped into the shower, making sure that it was cold enough to cool his body but not freezing enough for him to turn into a popsicle. He used some of the Patrician’s fancy shampoo to wash his hair, telling himself that this was not stealing but a perk of being inside this bathroom. Then he used some soap to wash his body, breathing in the scent of lavender.

It was convenient to sit on the chair inside the shower and have the option of using the hand-rails as well as he lathered up and breathed through his nose. His heart was no longer banging around in his chest, but steady and calm.

When he’d toweled off with one of Vetinari’s ludicrously soft towels and dressed in his pajamas, he looked up to find his worn blue dressing gown hanging on the back of the bathroom door. He combed his hair with the old comb from the bag. Then he put on the dressing gown, trying the soft belt around his middle and enjoying the warmth of having an extra layer on.

The makeup bag in the corner was fuller than it had been a year ago, containing creams and concealer that was used to hide bags under eyes and all sorts of things that Vimes did not understand what did, but was apparently useful.

His face was pink in the fogged mirror, his eyes brighter than they had been in days.

The scent of toast and good tea greeted him as soon as he opened the door. There were soft-boiled eggs in their cups on the table in front of Vetinari, as well as some butter, jam and an additional tea kettle. The fire in the hearth was roaring, filling the room with golden light and warmth.

Vetinari was sipping tea and gestured for Vimes to sit down.

A few years ago, Vimes would have interpreted that movement as an order to put his ass in the chair, to be obeyed with a grumble if it was to be obeyed at all.

But now he saw the dark circles underneath Vetinari’s eyes and how his leg shook slightly as he sat on the sofa. So Vimes did not sit in the armchair, but beside Vetinari on the sofa.

“You are going to stay, then?” Vetinari asked, when Vimes had finished cutting his toast into soldiers and dipped the fifth one into the soft yolk of the egg and pretty much swallowed it whole.

“No sense in getting dressed again when I’ve just put these on,” Vimes said, warming his hands by holding the hot teacup.

“Hm,” the Patrician said, eating his dry toast as Vimes almost inhaled the tea. Then he handed Vimes an already buttered piece of toast, which Vimes accepted.

He ate it slowly, enjoying the crunch of freshly baked toasted bread and the smoothness of the melted butter.

“Are you feeling better?” Vetinari asked when Vimes had wiped the crumbs off his lips and fingers.

Night had fallen outside, bringing with it a chill and a hint of a thunder.

“Yes,” Vimes managed, looking down as he realized that Vetinari’s hand was resting on his knee and their thighs were touching. He put his hand on top of Vetinari’s bony one and kept it there for a while until they laced their fingers together.

The first kiss was a gentle one, Vetinari pulled him closer like he was making up for all the time that they had spent with too much space in-between them. But soon Vimes found himself deepening the kiss, his hands wandering up Vetinari’s back and grabbing his hips.

Vetinari’s hands cupped his jaw as they kissed, sliding down to unbutton the second button of Vimes’s nightshirt. They stopped there instead of sliding up Vimes’s thighs and getting to work.

They broke apart and Vimes made an annoyed sound at the back of his throat, resisting the urge to take Vetinari’s wrist and just put his hand-

“Alright?” Vetinari asked, his voice too soft, too careful.

Fine, Vimes wanted to say. Let’s just keep going, get to the part where our clothes are off-

But Vetinari’s hand stayed there on the button and his other palm flat against Vimes’s chest.

Slow.

Safe.

They’d stop as soon as Vimes would make any indication that he was not on board with this. They’d done this song and dance before. And they’d continue to do so.

“The dressing gown first,” Vimes managed. “Then we, we’ll see if-“

Vetinari nodded. He untied the belt at Vimes’s waist slowly, making sure that Vimes could stop him at any moment. Vimes let the dressing gown fall on the sofa, shrugging it off.

“Let’s go into the bedroom,” Vimes suggested, noting how badly Vetinari’s leg was shaking and how careful his movements had become. The bed was the best that money could buy, which both Sybil and Vimes had insisted on when it had become apparent that the old bed was just causing Vetinari to lose sleep due to pain.

Vetinari stood up, holding tightly onto Vimes’s arm as they walked to the bedroom. There would be bruises later on.

Vetinari sat down on the bed, glancing in the corner where his spare cane was propped up against the wall and rummaged around in the drawer of his bedside table until he found his medication, which he then swallowed with a glass of water.

“We could just sleep,” Vimes suggested, but Vetinari shook his head.

Then he climbed onto the bed properly, lying down beside Vimes, who eyed him hungrily before grabbing Vetinari by the lapels of his fine waistcoat, the black material soft as flower petals in his rough hands and kissed him until they were both breathless and Vetinari’s neck and ears had turned a soft pink. Vimes had utterly ruined Vetinari’s hairstyle, which was now an utter mess. His own hair was probably just as much of a wreck, but that was its usual state, so there was not much to worry about there.

He didn’t stop Vetinari when he unbuttoned the second button of his nightshirt as if he was unwrapping a gift. Or the third button. Or the fourth. Or the rest of them.

Instead he kissed the underside of the man’s wrists, watching as Vetinari’s expression became soft.

The shirt ended up somewhere on the floor, thrown away with great force.

Vetinari pushed down Vimes’s trousers and underwear and every touch was thorough and slow, as if the man was in no hurry at all. He did not roughly grip Vimes by the love handles when things got interesting, but kissed the inside of his thighs before turning Vimes into a boneless heap.

When Vimes could move again, the look on Vetinari’s face was horribly smug and definitely too endearing.

Vimes unbuttoned Vetinari’s waistcoat carefully as the man leaned back against the pillows after he’d cleaned both of them up with a wet rag he’d gotten from the bathroom. Soon the shirt was unbuttoned too, revealing a skinny chest and several slim leather cases holding stilettos. They stayed on, because Vetinari did not sleep without them being strapped to his body.

Vimes settled against Vetinari’s back, kissing his shoulder before cupping the bulge in his trousers. Then Vimes stroked him through the strained trousers as Vetinari moaned, finally shoving the trousers and underwear down. He kept going, accepting the vial of oil that Vetinari shoved into his hand and coated his fingers with some oil after wrestling with the cork.

“I’m not going to last-“ Vetinari began.

“I don’t plan on it,” Vimes said. “But if you want me to slow down-“

“No,” Vetinari said, “keep going-“

Vetinari’s breathing was ragged as Vimes doubled his pace, finally becoming a shaky mess. Then his whole body relaxed, muscles untensing. He rolled over to his back as Vimes began massaging his thigh, getting rid of the worst knots while the muscle was still warm.

After a while Vimes got up and headed back to the bathroom to get another damp rag to clean up, which he did with great care before dropping the rag into the washing bag in the corner. Then he climbed back into the bed and got under the covers, where Vetinari had made himself comfortable.

The world underneath the soft covers was warm and safe, the bed supporting their bodies perfectly.

Vimes closed his eyes, ready to wake up in the position of a starfish. Instead he found himself becoming the little spoon, Vetinari wrapping his arm around him.

Vimes did not move away, listening to the silence in the room.

How the hell had he gotten himself here?

He spent years of his life in dented armor walking the streets at night, getting soaked to the bone and liking it.

And now…

Now he was married to a wonderful lady, who highly approved of sharing him with Lord Vetinari. And then there was Young Sam…

“When I was a kid, this wasn’t a problem,” Vimes blurted out, as Vetinari’s fingers brushed against his soft middle before staying there, resting against his side.

“Problem?” Vetinari asked, pulling Vimes a fraction closer.

“I could go days without much food at all. Snouty would make us porridge and maybe I’d have an apple or half a pie sometime later that day. And I was so scrawny then. Now everything…sticks.”

“Why is that important?” Vetinari asked, not moving his hand.

“Could run faster, for one,” Vimes said, sounding shaky, even to himself. “I’d be able to look at iconographs of myself if I wasn’t…like this. Maybe I’d even catch more criminals and my knees wouldn’t try to die on me. I just want to keep being useful, and I see how hard everyone around me is working-“

He thought of every time he showed up in the Oblong Office to find that Vetinari was at his desk, reading paperwork or speaking to city officials. But then again, he knew about the light wheelchair that was brought out on the days where Vetinari had to save his steps so that people could see him walk. Then as soon as he could, he’d sit down in the chair and wheel himself around.

“You work hard enough, Sam,” Vetinari stated. There was something in his voice that told Vimes that Vetinari was going to inform Sybil that they needed to have an Emergency Family Meeting about all this. “And I just saw you run across the rooftops last week at full speed after that thief. That scared Lipwig into behaving for at least another month, I can tell you that.”

“That’s something,” Vimes managed as Vetinari traced a long silver scar on his stomach.

“I doubt that any criminal would like to be in your way,” Vetinari said. “As for looking at yourself, you look perfectly fine as you are to me. I’m sure that Lady Sybil agrees with me.”

“You both try to make me wear silk stockings with my best uniform,” Vimes grumbled.

“Well, you modified it so that you don’t wear tights,” Vetinari said and Vimes could feel the shrug. “Besides, they suit you.”

“Hm,” Vimes muttered. “I know you commissioned Prudence Hamilton to continue her naval romance novel series and that you slipped the first edition of her new book into my bag.”

“Oh no,” Vetinari said, rolling over to his back and adjusting the covers. “How terrible. Am I going to be arrested for such abominable behavior?”

“Nobby said that I made sounds like a malfunctioning kettle when I was reading it on my tea break,” Vimes continued grumbling.

“The part where they are stranded on a deserted island was quite good,” Vetinari remarked. “Especially the swimming scene.”

“And the rescue,” Vimes said. “I am a simple man. Give me a towering woman in huge boots rescuing her husbands by weaponizing her own rage against pirates and I’m sold.”

“I thought you might be,” Vetinari said with a wicked grin.

Vimes let himself sink into the mattress, reminded that when the autumn came, he might find balls of yarn in his bag that he’d never purchased and perhaps even more novels. Vetinari’s hand was cool and soothing on his arm as Vimes drifted off.


End file.
